Ao3: shipwreckinabottle. Busy boi irl (pls don't spam for updates.) Asks, prompts, and especially conversation, are always welcome. Not really a blog, more of a place to keep track of the things I write.
Rating: Mature
Fandom: Batman - All Media Types
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Harley Quinn
Word Count: 4389
Summary:
the few times they kissed.
a re-write of a one-shot i wrote back in 2016 after watching suicide squad (and their 5 second scene together). was thinking of this pairing recently and decided to completely rewrite this entire story 8 years later 😂
(short preview below)
The first time they kissed, Harley would argue it was nothing more than an accident, really.
They were scuffling in the mud, and she was kicking and screaming and biting and basically doing all she could to escape. She was coated in mud and dirt, slippery like an eel, but he still managed a decent grip on her, and they were struggling and rolling and falling across one another like a bunch of drunks on a Gotham’s night out with nothing to lose.
She’d tried to kick him in the family jewels at one point in their struggle—more than tried, actually—and yeah, yeah, she knew it wasn’t the most ladylike thing to do, but it wasn’t like she could even remember the last time anyone had called her a lady, so that was fair game. Plus, whatever padding the Bats used down there was rock solid, and had probably hurt her more than it did him.
So, she tried head-butting him instead, because that always worked, aiming straight for his nose where she knew all the cracky cartilages were. But somehow he saw that coming as well and swung out of the way, all too easily and all too smugly, if she might add. Some echolocation bat-sy cheating bullshit.
So unfair!
But if Harley was known for one thing, it was that she didn’t give up easily, even in the face of overwhelming batversity. So she waited, bidding her time, waiting for the perfect opportunity and—there!
She flung mud at his eyes, causing him to flinch backwards while she barreled into him at full speed, sending the two of them smashing into a dumpster and—for the briefest second, before the squelch of going headfirst into a dirty dumpster completely engulfed her—she felt his lips pressed up against hers.
Things stopped for a moment. Soft. And she wasn’t referring to the oily takeout containers and chili oil wontons she was now knee deep in. But his lips. They were soft. Fluffy. Kinda like marshmallows. Which was definitely an out-of-pocket thing to think about—of all people—the Batman’s lips, because surely, soft—he wasn’t.
She blinked, a double-take, really, and that second’s distraction was all he needed—rude!—before her world spun, the colorful lights around whirling into technicolor detail; it was beautiful for a brief second, like streaks of comets passing in the night, except it was just the neon signs of strip clubs and poker bars and whatever shady establishments all over Gotham city zooming by and…
Oh.
It wasn’t the lights that were zooming by.
She realized half a second before a puddle of mud caked her right in the face that she was the one being swung out of the dumpster, her face oof-ing into the dirty alleyway as the Bats finally got a good grip on her, pinning her down and cuffing her hands tight behind her.
Ye-ouch.
As she laid there in the mud, the fight gone out of her, she couldn’t help thinking that it wasn’t at all like when she kissed her puddin’. With Bats there was no visible fireworks, no loud explosions, no butterflies in her stomach or down between her… well, if she had to be completely honest, she did feel a little ol’ something when he’d pinned her to the ground, but that was definitely more on her than on him, really.
She licked her lips. Thought reaaaaal hard about what it’d tasted like. Leather and darkness, she thought, though not to be confused with that one time she’d made out with that dominatrix mourning their dog recently passing of old age (that was certainly a different kind of leather and darkness).
It was weird, and a little conflicting.
Conflicting not entirely because she’d kissed him, but because she realized she didn’t find it completely unpleasant at all.
just found ur buckykate work & wanted to drop by to say i’m a huge fan! you’ve done such amazing job and i can’t wait to see what you have planned for these characters ^^ hope all is well
Rating: General Audiences
Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen
Relationship: Miwa Kasumi/Muta Kokichi | Mechamaru
Word Count: 3310
Summary: The illumination caught him in his usual spot, slightly hunched over at the corner of a wooden bench so old the saplings of the tree it was cut from were likely ancient giants by now, tasked with watching over things way more interesting than old boxes in a dusty room.
She walked over to him, leaned her sword against the wall, and took her usual seat next to him.
“Hello, Mechamaru,” she said. “How are you today?”
Three rare-pair fics (+summary/vibes) hopefully to be done during-
Sept:
(MCU) Peter Quill x Nebula (what is lonelier than a generational ship lumbering through the darkness of space, a thousand sleeping souls aboard and yet with only stardust and the distant glow of long-dead stars for company?)
(MCU) Jennifer Walters x Steve Rogers (time-travel “this is fine” / “mistakes were made” crack-fic)
(JJK) Itadori Yuuji x Kugisaki Nobara (tomorrow the world ends, but no matter what happens, we’ll always have tonight’s dance)
-
Continuation of fics during-
Oct:
Finish up editing the final chapter of: “Sin-Eater, Grief-Drinker”.
Summary: the Mandalorian nobility did like their theatrics, aye, they did, and what better theatrics than a little princess preaching their worships in the Living Waters, even if the princess believed nothing more of it than fairy tales?
/The war is won, and Bo-Katan returns home with sergeant Din Djarin at her side, only to find her home planet razed to glass and ruins, her people starving and unburied in the streets./
(a chapter in a grimdark fantasy AU, inspired / in the style of Peter McLean's War for the Rose Throne)(no, you don’t have to read anything of it beforehand.)
(read on ao3 here!)
(short preview below)
Bo-Katan wasn’t a religious one, she wasn’t.
The company priest was, aye, indeed he was, and in his divine madness, stripped the armor from his body and charged the fortified outpost with nothing but holy fervor and his bare cock dangling between his legs, spurned by days of being pinned down by mortar fire and claims of ghostly voices no one knew were of a divine or delusional sort.
Bo’s small company of men, starved and gaunt as they were, let loose a small cheer as the mad priest scaled atop a small rock outcropping, his bare buttocks glinting yellow in the sulfuric reflection of Florrum’s twin moons, only to quickly turn into groans as a burst of kinetic energy rippled through the priest, shredding him into mist and paste, bones separated from flesh as he simply spilled to the ground with a wet plop.
Aye, the disruptor cannons were effective killers at that.
-
There were times when Bo wondered it true, aye, she did, wondered if the soul of the insane priest had now joined Kad Ha’rangir the destroyer god in waging holy war across the unseen dominions, waging spiritual crusade against the eternal stagnation of the sloth god Arasuum.
She didn’t think so, to her mind.
She wasn’t a religious one, aye, but she wasn’t ignorant either. As princess of her people, she was learned of the myths and tenets of Mandalore, of all their religions old and new.
She was learned of Akaanati’kar’oya—the War of Life and Death; she was learned of Kad Ha’rangir—bringer of change and growth; of Arasuum—stagnation and idleness; she was learned of the collective oversoul of the manda; and the terrible fate befalling the ignorant dar’manda.
She was learned of their many gods, their myths, their proclaimed purpose to wage war; she could recite their many tenets from front to back—the Mandalorian nobility did like their theatrics, aye, they did, and what better theatrics than a little princess preaching their worships in the Living Waters, even if the princess believed nothing more of it than fairy tales?
Aye, she knew and was learned of it all, and all was theatrics for fools, to her mind. The maddened priest was a fool and a coward; there was no divine purpose, and he wasn’t fighting in anyone’s war but the Empire’s own, and this was his end, not to become Kad Ha’rangir’s holy crusader in some saintly purpose, no, he wasn’t—he was just a stain of blood and human paste on a broken, war-torn planet millions of lightyears from wherever he was conscripted from, dying for another man’s war.
-
Bo didn’t believe in gods, no, as she had written, but there was something she believed in. The priest was dead and that meant forty-seconds before the cannons recharged, forty-seconds for her to move.
She broke free from their cover, acid burning in her muscles from days of waiting and inactivity, and charged across the battlefield, armor scorched by returning fire and debris, explosions going off left and right incinerating allies and foes alike, klaxon warning systems blaring as loudly in her helmet as the screech of dying starfighters in the battlescape above.
She ran like the maddened priest, she did, and she ran and she ran and she ran, guided not by the gods nor war-madness, she knew the former as much, and slid into the rocky outcropping the mad priest had bunkered down the last days before his frenzied charge. And there, in the face of ungodly destruction and death and waste—Bo found divine purpose, aye, she did.
-
She didn’t believe in gods, didn’t believe in divine wars or oversouls or large sloths the size of galaxies bringing idleness and stagnation to their reality. But what she believed in, what she worshipped and revered and feared, like all foot soldiers past and present—was artillery. Was energy catapults and blaster artilleries and mortar launchers and anti-infantry batteries and mass-drive cannons and propelled turbolasers and whatever forces powerful enough to be deemed godly on the battlefield.
For what use of a deity in the sky, to her mind, compared to the shadow of an imperial dreadnaught descending upon the battlefield?
What use the fear of god, compared to the fear of a singular weapon powerful enough to wipe out hundreds, thousands of soldiers with but a single button?
Aye.
Power, destruction, death; those she could see with her eyes, and those she believed in. And while the magnetic interference from the planet’s sulfuric storms had rendered their ground-to-orbit com-systems all but useless, the old field-radio her company priest had left behind with his armor before his mad charge, the radio he had insisted on bringing along when no one else did, whether it was guided by the hammer of Kad Ha’rangir’ himself or just dumb luck, was still intact.
And so, Bo kneeled into the ground, blaster fire turning the world around her into a blinding kaleidoscope of colors, she kneeled like the mad priest offering his worships to an equally mad god in the center of a mad battlefield, and she kneeled and thumbed the coordinates into the old shortwave radio unaffected by magnetic interference and aye, for a moment, she believed, she truly did, as came a terrible roar from above and the heavens opened and she brought down divine justice like the smite of Kad Ha’rangir’s cosmic hammer.
There was a loud boom as orbital artillery struck, a burst of brilliant white light that short-circuited her helmet’s visor in a painful instance, and when she could see again, the enemy stronghold was all but gone, vaporized down to atoms, not even dust and bones left to bury.
-
She returned home after the war.
The Kryze castle, her castle, was ruins. The once lush hills now marred black with the scars of planetary bombardment and superheated glass and bones turned ash. The great cliffs were no more, flattened into nameless dunes, and the oceans were gone, vaporized into jagged landscapes of craters and glass-stones, fused and warped into an ugly stain of blaster marks and artillery strikes and half-buried starfighters jutting from the shattered plains, left behind like some husks of ancient creatures, mangled steel instead of bones.
Aye, the Empire had won, and across the galaxy—this was the cost.
Dozens of star systems bankrupted, smaller regions cannibalized, and Outer Rim colonies were left to die. People were sick and starving, hyperspace lanes were shut down, supplies had dried up, and trade was non-existent. Governments were imploding, civil wars were breaking out, conglomerates were absorbing territories against their will and putting the people to labor. Millions of broken, half-mad soldiers were returning home to find home no longer was, and a deadly new techno-plague, once unleashed by the Empire upon her enemies, had found none left and turned on its own people, causing entire regions of space to go dark.
But they had won, hadn’t they?
Aye, they had won, as she had written, and her home was razed to glass and ruins, her birthright crushed to dust, her people starved and unburied in the streets, all while she had won a war half the galaxy away, a war neither side wanted, for an immortal, faceless emperor no one had seen in centuries, who had beggared entire star systems and left her home to rot.
Aye, they had won, and these were the times they lived in.
Last Line Tag Game (but more like multiple paragraphs amirite)
(tagged by @tiny-increments (thank you!)
Kind of a late one as I was pretty busy the last two months, but I’m back to writing and have so, so many stories going, so here’s me taking advantage of the tag to share a bit of everything I’m currently working on (and seeing if anyone else is interested :D).)
NSFW warning.
MCU Matt x Jen one-shot.
Summary/premise: Essentially Jen going >
;
“Seriously, Matt? I had dinner plans. Not eating-microwaveable-dinners-in-my-pajamas-while-watching-Friends-reruns sort of plan, but like actual plans. With an actual person. A date plan. Which I have to cancel now. Because some inconsiderate asshole just had to show up at my place half-beaten to death and bleeding my blue Ikea couch purple!”
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MCU Steve x Jen time travel AU one-shot.
;
“Bruce?”
Her cousin picks up on the first ring this time, his voice sounding tinnier and squeakier than usual, though Jen suspects its more from the connection of wherever he is, rather whatever shitty reception she usually gets around here.
“Yeah?”
“So… you know that age-old situation where you come across a time machine, but instead of breaking the space-time continuum by killing Hitler or meeting your great-great-grandparents, you decide to use it for selfish reasons instead like trying to see dinosaurs or figuring out if D.B Cooper was a real person and getting onto his plane, but then the plane takes off and his seat is empty and you’re starting to think the whole story’s a crock of shit when a turbulent hits the plane and a flight attendant spills her drink over you and they move you to another seat and you look down and realize you’re in Cooper’s seat seconds before the time machine refires and sends you to another-”
“Jen. Calm down. I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me. Are you in trouble? You-”
“Steve,” she says, a little breathlessly.
“Steve?”
“Yes. Steve”
“Steve… as in Rogers? Captain America, Steve?”
“Yes.”
“What about him?”
“So… about that time machine thing…”
-
Sandman: Johanna x Morpheus.
;
She focuses her thoughts, she focuses like she’s about to cast a spell, but instead of Latin script or Demon-tongue or Elder languages long lost to sanity and time, she speaks instead of images: or his cock squeezed between her fingers, of heated breaths and nails through flesh, of the way he would whimper, would beg and moan as she fucks him exactly the way she wants. She focuses it all into a sharp, mental ball—full of spikes, defiance, and a good-ol-fuck-you—and wills it right into him.
She sees it as it happens. Like the erosion of a great cliff, the exact moment it falls into the ocean, the immense waves flooding civilizations and creating new landscapes.
There’s a twitch in the corner of his eyes. A hitch in his breath. The action causing a strand of hair to fall out of place—and there it is: a sole piece of imperfection bared to the world, and she stands at the precipice of it all, this foreign landscape, only missing a flag to stake her ownership.
Johanna grins, triumph.
-
Star Trek: Strange New Worlds
Spock x Chapel. (For those who watch the show, I’m writing a fantasy-AU one-shot revolving around Pollux x Audrey from episode 8 😂)
;
There was a bed; a desk with material for writing; a few books and tomes; and a strange, smokeless torch to read by—the bright, circular lightings found often in this strange kingdom: the Ever-lights he suspected powered by otherworld forces rather the temperance of fire, that could brighten and dim, could adhere to the user’s whims and desires; too precise, too clockwork, too perfect to be of nature or the caprices of magicks.
He was somewhere within the Eastern lands of Elysian, beyond the fields of flower and song, the lands of a thousand vibrant petals; colors said to rival even the beauty of their queen monarch, colors more radiant than the forever dance of the cascading midnight stars, the luminescence of nebulas colliding across space and time.
Not that he would get to judge any of it.
He was buried deep underground, layers of dirt and bones between him and the rumored radiance, with no sunlight nor breeze, no telling between the days nor dusks beyond the glow of the peculiar lightings. Nor even a strict, potbellied jailer to spar with words, to pass time with banter and foolish defiance, lighthearted jabs at peasantry and the lives of their betters; not as insult, but truth.
Pollux would know. He grew up poorer, weaker, and having less in his pockets and stomach than most. Perhaps the catalyst for his hunger, almost juvenile and desperate, always clawing at the tables for scraps, for any semblance of power he could find.
Decades spent honing his craft, uncovering magicks beyond one’s wildest dreams—all the power and knowledge a man would ever need or wield in his lifetime—and yet it was never enough. He was the wizard with powers of the Old, the Imperishable of a Thousand Lives, who tamed the Swamp of infinite deaths; he had everything, feats of legends, accomplishments rivalling Kings and perhaps even Gods, and still, he wanted more, more, and more.
And now, there was nothing left but his own greed and hubris; his tools confiscated, his being trapped behind magick-dampening walls; he was nothing more a man behind iron bars, weak and alone; the helpless wizard in his ivory tower, buried the wrong way up, deep beneath the golden fields of the East, with nothing but his dingy surroundings and the occasional passing rodent for company.
And sometimes, he was reminded as he looked down at his bandaged arm—her.
-
HotD Aemond Targaryen x older OFC one-shot
premise: look i just wanna see Aemond get fucked up by an older lady, alright?
;
She strode across the room, footsteps nothing more a whisper against the marbled floors, dark robes billowing in her wake like a raven unfurled, an image of dark omens and darker tidings, a glint of steel by her side: a long, serrated blade adorned with bright rubies and the memory of dried blood and the wails of a tortured man inflicted over a thousand flesh-cuts. The blade was clean now, the clear steel reflecting off the evening sunlight, beautiful and deadly, much like his mother’s appointed assassin herself.
Was she the one who poisoned him?
Would her blade still be clean by the end of the night?
Aemond tried to move, but his arms would not comply. They remained where they had fallen, outstretched like a man inviting death into his embrace, though as much he reveled charging into uncertainty, into odds his tacticians scoffed at and bards exaggerated, a brave man welcoming his judgement—he was not.
He didn’t want to die. Not this way. A pathetic death imprisoned in his own body. By poison and not blade, not glorious, bloodied death.
She walked around him, watching, nothing but the dart of her eyes through the slits of her silken shroud.
How easily could she slit his throat right here.
She found the cup, eventually. Picked it up and sniffed it. Then she looked at him—and sighed. A look of disappointment. An almost mirror-image of his own mother’s. Perhaps too familiar, too practiced, like she knew exactly what infuriated him the most.
Pity.
Like he was a child who had hurt himself.
Disappointment.
A good-for-nothing boy who could do no right.
He knew she was doing it on purpose, and yet he couldn’t stop the anger that boiled red-hot within him; rage born of nothing but his own hubris, his own shame. He strained against his paralyzed muscles, but accomplished nothing but a weak whimper and a spittle of drool.
Pathetic.
She walked past him, sitting down behind the bed where he laid, the smell of gardenia and the brush of fabric beyond where his head could turn. Her words flittered by his ear, a low whisper passing through his bones, “Your mother did not pay me to save dying men,” her fingers slid past his jaw as she spoke, gliding past hair only starting to peak. Her skin was warm, her touch gentle, but there was nothing tender in the action, more akin an undertaker prepping a corpse for their final journey.
Then her teeth clicked, “My mistake. A dying boy, really.”
-
Original story
Original story one-shot where the two protagonists have won the battle (and defeated the baddies, so to speak), but are also bleeding out at the end.
;
It really wasn’t easy thinking straight when you were dying. Harder to think of whichever God to pray to. And there were so many. So, so many.
She interrupted me, of course. “For a man so firmly against the beliefs of a higher power, you’re awfully religious all a sudden.”
I frowned. Or tried to. It seemed even things like that were harder to accomplish when you were bleeding out on the ground, much less trying to alternate between holding a conversation and pray.
“I’ve always been religious,” I argued, what I normally lacked in faith clearly not in sarcasm. “We visited what, twelve temples before the battle?”
“No, my Prince, what are you are—is desperate,” said my loyal Princeguard, a smile baring her blood-red teeth, giving her a frenzied appearance similar to depictions of one of her seventy-three warrior Saints, just missing the improbable third arm and eye. “You don’t believe in any God, any Deity, any Saint, and yet you pray to all of them; you worship at every altar, appease at every temple; you know more words of prayer than most faithful abbots, and for what reason? Not because you believe in any of them, no. But because you think it might help if just one of them happens to be real, happens to be listening.”
“Well, not all of them,” I tried to say dumbly. I might be dying, but I’m not foolish enough to put all my eggs in one basket praying to the Saint of Harvest. I mean, even if he were real, what could he do, offer me some corn while I die?
“Just the ones that count, huh?” she asked.
A keen-minded and highly-trained warrior’s brain was something amazing to behold; astounding in both combat and out. Including being able to lecture me on my apparent lack of faith even while bleeding out from over half a dozen fatal wounds and a longsword (not so long anymore since half of it is-) protruding from her gut. Not to mention she was correct as usual, of course.
Meanwhile, I was so delirious from the loss of blood I thought that piece of pudding wobbling on the floor was a chunk of someone’s heart refusing to stop beating even separated from its body. Not that there was a shortage of dead bodies around us. Nor pudding. Not my fault the assassins attacked during the Autumn feast.
“Look, the sun isn’t a Deity,” I said between coughs, more blood running down my chest like rivulets of wine, the stains surely to invoke the wrath of the royal tailors in the morning; I wonder how precise, how deep their words would cut, with how their scissors did the same. Funny what the mind thought of on the precipice of death. “The sun isn’t going to judge us at the end of the Lonely Path. If the philosophers are right, the sun is just a ball of gas. It doesn’t give a single fuck about us. And if someone is on the Lonely Path, the best way out of it perhaps isn’t finding god, but a goddamn brothel.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But Solia of the Lonely Path is only one of many. What about the other Gods you ‘worship’?”
“That,” I grinned. “Is what we gamblers call hedging.”
She laughed, though it came out a little airy, likely from the blade that had pierced through her lungs. Not the long-slash-short-sword in her gut, no. This was another. Another of many, in fact, she had taken while cutting down men multiple times her number. “Not just a cripple,” she said. “A usurper, a soon-to-be dead man, but a degenerate, too. What fine company I keep.”
I dragged my way across the floor to where she laid. Our shoulders bumped. “Ah, but what better company to have at the end.”
“I can think of better,” she said, in a way that was so serious it might actually be.
-
also pairings with no plot just vibes that i want to write for
Relationship: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus / Johanna Constantine
Word Count: 10903
Summary: “Your entire life, your entire existence, you suffer so others may continue to live their ignorant, carefree lives, unaware of the things that roam Underneath; you hurt, you bleed, and you sacrifice, so others may continue to squander their boring, meaningless lives; and someday, you’ll die, painful and alone, surrounded not by those you’ve saved, who knows not even of your damned, broken existence, but by the monsters you’ve condemned, waiting for the chance to drag you down to wherever hells they reign.”
-
she dreams of him, sometimes, annoyingly.
Summary: -like she was blindfolded, the intensified sensations of everything happening in this small, cramped space, where she couldn’t make out anything beyond the shape of old boxes lurking in the shadows, where she couldn’t even turn her head to see him in the dark.
/Matt, Jen, picnic parties, and the little shed at the back of the yard/
-
i wrote a thing!
(read on ao3)
(short preview below)
Something about it hits different kissing a grown man on your childhood bed. Maybe it was the soft flannel of his shirt twisted in her hands; maybe it was his day old scruff scratching across the underside of her chin; maybe it was his legs, just a bit too long and sticking out the ends of her bed like a sore thumb; or maybe, Jen wondered, as she rolled Matt onto his back and straddled his waist, as she kissed him with her palms squeezed into his shirt, it has to do with him.
Maybe it was his good looks. Maybe it was the mind-blowing sex. Maybe it was his kindness and patience and honesty. Maybe it was because he was the first person in a long while she could completely trust, could let her walls down, could be her true self around. Maybe it was because he was someone, regardless of how much it would hurt him, who wanted to do the right thing; to help the defenseless; to bring a little bit of light and joy into this dark, dark world.
A hundred different variables in mind, too many, she thought, to draw a definite conclusion. Or maybe, just simply, he was all of those and so much more; and he was also someone she really, really liked, and as far she was able to tell, liked her the same way too. An unfamiliar concept these days, it seemed.
It was a warm Sunday afternoon. A day after the whole debacle with Todd and Intelligencia, a day after Matt had decided to stay for the weekend; the sort of day perfect for an afternoon lunch picnic, a chance to relax and unwind away from the crowd and bustle of the city, a chance to trade the sirens and horns and the thick, electrified air of millions of busy Californians jostling to and fro their destinations (obstacles be damned), for the quiet suburbs where she grew up, surrounded by familiar palm trees swaying in the wind, and the gentle hum of laundry machines and sprinkles in the front yard.
The weather felt wonderful, too. Lazy sunlight filtered through her second-floor bedroom window, alongside a gentle breeze and the warm laughter of her parents and relatives setting up the lunch table just outside in the backyard, underneath a sky Jen knew was as blue as the oceans themselves.
She kissed Matt again, fingers lingering on his jaw as she tasted the coffee on his lips, bitter and sweet and just so quintessentially “sleep-deprived-lawyer” and just so him. Their kiss today was slower, lazier, unhurried, more time to explore and savor; there was no hurry, no early-morning flights nor masked criminals to catch; it was just the two of them, and in the quiet space of her childhood bedroom, it was like a beautiful world of their own, made of soft flannel, gentle kisses, and the warm rays of sunlight across her skin.
She drew her teeth along his lower lip, and felt him shivering at the friction, a small hum as she coaxed him open with her tongue, as the kiss deepened and her hand slid up into his hair. His hands, in return, moved from her waist down to her legs, just a few inches off the hem of her floral sundress; his palms were a warm cushion against her skin, a rise of goosebumps where they connected, like the first stages of a chemical reaction, her own body responding to him in a non-verbal want, want, want, a catalyst to a more, more, more.
His fingers brushed up against the dress’ edge occasionally, but never going further, like the fabric itself was a reminder, a physical and also invisible line he wouldn’t quite cross; there was an unspoken appropriateness to the way he touched, held, even kissed her. A modern day gentleman, she was reminded of, properness down to his bones. Endearing at times, but also utterly unnecessary when she was quite literally making out with him atop her childhood bed.
So, when Matt brushed up against the hem again, she grabbed hold of his wrist and slid them up the hike of her dress. “Touch me,” she spoke into his neck, the words mingling amongst nips and kisses, as much a plea as an order. He tensed at the sudden movement, a short second’s pause before he complied—quite enthusiastically, if she might add—as he cupped down onto her butt, his hands feeling impossibly large against her, fingers pulling towards him, like he was trying to mold them together, to eradicate whatever little spaces left between them.
She shuddered at the sensation, at his eagerness, at the vibration in his neck, originating from an instinctual sound not loud enough to form, but felt from the contact of their skin. She felt like she was burning up, heat radiating from every point where they met, a flush of warmth pooling inwards and out at the same time, that curled around her thighs and in-between, causing her legs to squeeze tighter around him, her hips grinding forward and sliding up against his groin, a sense of friction which allowed her to feel exactly how much she was affecting him.
When they broke apart for air, he was breathing softly, his eyes fluttering and warm and hazel, little flecks of gold visible in the faint sunlight; his voice was milder than usual, a soothing quality to it like she was precious air and he’d kissed his fill. “Jen…” he started to say, but paused when she kissed the side of his jaw, the words trailing off like he’d forgotten whatever he’d wanted to say for the moment. “Jen,” it took him another moment to—it seemed—compose himself. “Are you sure your parents don’t want our help? I can help carry things around. I’m blind, not useless.”
“Matt, you’re a guest,” she said, remembering how she had introduced him to her parents and relatives the day before, the wide grins and patented overly-friendly-Walters-Family-hugs, which led to her father clasping Matt on the back as a way of greeting, causing Matt to stumble and lose eye contact for a short moment before everyone realized, even without Ched’s surprised, “Oh shit! Jenny’s (she hated that nickname, but it stuck from when they were kids and he couldn’t say “Jennifer”) boyfriend’s blind!”, that Matt couldn’t see.
There was a lot of apologizing afterwards; a lot of coddling and handholding, as well as Matt trying his best to convince everyone around that it was all very unnecessary, that he was a grown man who could take care of himself. It didn’t work very well, and resulted in him looking lost and overwhelmed under all the attention that she just had to Hulk-up and put her foot down and roar at everyone that if just one more person treats Matt like a helpless child, they were getting on the first Uber out of there.
Things went a lot better after that. Though her parents were still pretty firm on setting up the picnic table on their own, since Matt was a, as they had called it, “a handsome, esteemed guest (and hopefully soon part) of the family.”
“Yeah, but I can still help wit-” he started to say again, but she gave him no chance whatsoever to finish the sentence, her fingers bundling his collar and pulling him against her, silencing him with another kiss, taking as much of him to her heart’s desire. In some ways, she felt like clay, like she was shaping herself to him: to his lips, his tongue, his taste, even the way he would hold and kiss her, even the light hums that would come from his throat, and the way he would whisper her name, all which formed different impressions, a sculpture of him she would remember till the ends of her days.
Jen honestly couldn’t remember the last time she felt this… contented, this peaceful and warm and happy. Everything felt light and fuzzy, like she was riding on a chariot of clouds, where everything felt just so… right, for the first time, that even with all the wrongness and darkness out there in the world, she had carved out this safe little corner she could call her own—this little spot with Matt and the afternoon breeze and his fuzzy socks peeking out the ends of her bed; a world separated from it all, a place where no one could hurt her even as regular ol-Jen. Here, she was safe, she was peaceful, she was happy.
Her hands slid down to his ribs, feeling the brush of flannel against her palm. It felt so warm and soft, too. In fact, everything about Matt felt warm and soft, from his lips to his kisses, to the way he held and even looked at her without looking; the way she would catch him tilting his head towards her sometimes, like he was just… listening to her, like she was birdsong, she was music, she was an orchestra and he was the only person in the audience who caught the symphony between the beats of her heart, who shouted—encore! encore! encore!—at the end of it all, even as everyone else stared on in confusion.
(maybe not every part of him is soft—she’s grinding on something quite hard, after all, but she digresses)
She laughed in the middle of their kiss. The sort of dumb, self-conscious laughter people would try to hide out of embarrassment when tasting delicious food or when telling a joke and failing horribly. Matt looked up at her, confused for a moment. Then, almost as if her laughter was infectious, he smiled—and broke out into laughter too.
Summary: and there's a vague sense of awareness that—from the sway of the cross as he fucks her into the bed—he’s definitely got a hell of a dirty mouth for a Catholic boy.
/hours after the Lilypad/
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I wrote a thing!
(Read on Ao3)
(short preview)
There’s thunder overhead and a heavy pour when they get to her place. Her back presses up against the front door, his hand finding purchase on the wooden beams beside her, his lips a mixture of rainwater and salt. He partly shields her from the downpour as she fumbles blindly through her purse for the keys, the lone, flickering porchlight above them casting his silhouette across the front lawn like a demon from the dark, surely a metaphor there for the less… distracted times.
The rumble of thunder breaks their kiss, a powerful flash of lightning illuminating Californian palm trees swaying in the wind and a reddened gleam off the carbon plates of Matt’s specialized suit, a brief, visible flare of knife scratches, chipped surfaces from bullet marks, and whatever other old, attempted wounds remain.
Jen finds the key eventually and opens the door. Shoes kicked off at the entrance, another flash of lightning, and she catches his outline by the doorway, rainwater lit up like blood across his darkened frame, deviled horns and an empty, red slit in his mask where eyes should be. Another strike of lightning, thunder follows, and she sees red, red, red, the color of hellfire and death, of blood and the Devil who comes in the night to collect.
She understands it, then. His moniker. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. She had laughed at it previously, finding it a bit too edgy and on the nose, but it’s a lot more apt than she had thought, even terrifying up close in the dark.
And yet, as Matt approaches her, as their lips hover inches apart, as she breathes him in and tastes the rainwater on his lips, as his mask peels away and her hands knot into his hair and his calloused fingers curve her jaw and angle her chin towards him, Matt feels nothing less than human, radiating gentleness and warmth and laughter echoing from his throat to her own as they hear the comical squelch, squelch, squelches coming from his wet boots.
They break apart so that he can remove his shoes and toss them aside in a wet flop. A soft click follows as Jen turns on a nearby lamp, nothing too bright, but enough for her to see him up close, full of warm shadows and sharp angles and the lines in his face and the flecks of hazel in his eyes. His hair looks weirdly soft in the touch of lamplight, whatever product he had previously used to hold it up had washed away in the rain, and some of it now falls against his forehead, all poofy and sudden urges to reach out and smoothen them back across his hairline.
Then off come his gloves, the latches, the hidden compartments and batons and clasps and zips. It takes Matt a full minute to shoulder off the top portion of his suit, which falls heavily to the ground with a loud thump, revealing its innards lined with hidden plates and protective kevlar.
Something in her chest flutters at the sight of his pale skin, at the lean lines of muscles and the mortal woes of a man without unbreakable, gamma-radiated flesh; he has scars, more than she can count at a single glance, more than she can likely see in the dim lights. She recognizes some of them from her time at the DA’s office, a mishmash of knife cuts and bullet wounds and dark bruises where ribs had broken again and again before healing fully, like a painting drawn over a hundred times, scars healed over and scars anew.
The reality of it sinks in for a moment, terrible, terrible, and it breaks her heart a little.
look, i’m not saying i have a brillant idea for a jennifer walters x steve rogers time travel one shot, but i have a brillant idea for a jennifer walters x steve rogers time travel one-shot.
Relationship: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus / Johanna Constantine
Word Count: 1769
Summary: he is monarch of this landscape, this Dreaming, and what is anything which exists here in his Dreaming but not his?
/he looks into her dreams, sometimes, and she stares right back.
She was a stray asteroid, making her way aimlessly across the universe but caught by gravity, locked into a synchronous orbit with this tall, stubborn person, unable to tear herself away and yet unable to see all of him.
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alternate episode 6 ending scene where Sunghoon crosses the line first.
